2019.02.25 - Cutscene: Tempus Fugit Infinituum
|location= Rowanwood Drawing Room |time= January 5th, Year Unknown; Morning |emitter= Staff, Micki, Cordy |players= |npcs= |artifacts= |factions= |music= Nave Artificial, "Tempus Fugit" }} "You mentioned that you've met witches before, my dear -- did they happen to tell you anything about specific abilities, a certain niche, anything like that?" Myrtle pours the tea that Nessa had brought in, into delicate little china cups. "Do you take milk or sugar?" Micki sits on the sofa next to the table, shaking her head and then pausing. "Uh, maybe a little milk, please." She tucks a stray lock of her always-remarkable back into place. "All they told me was that I had magical potential. Rashid confirmed it. Apparently, I could be a witch if I just study hard and apply myself." And she chuckles, to punctuate the fact that she just made a joke, however mild and self-aware. Then, once the cup and saucer is offered to her, she takes it in her hands. "Thank you." Myrtle smiles at the little bit of humor, affording herself a soft laugh almost missed by how quickly it comes and goes. She takes another cup and saucer, handing it off to Nessa, and then one to Cordelia Goode, and another to Cordelia Chase, seated in the wingback chair that, once upon a time, was jokingly titled "the Seat of the Supreme" for how often Fiona occupied it. Once Myrtle finishes distributing tea to the others, she takes her own seat next to Nessa, spoon still circling the cup upright. Telekinesis is one of her favorites, after all. "It's true, you have power and potential. But not just to become a witch." The elder witch shares a meaningful glance with Nessa, then looks back to Micki. "Typically, this only happens in a time when the reigning Supreme is endangered in some way. Either her time is coming to an end, or her power is, for whatever reason, waning." She lifts a lace-gloved hand, and Delia tries to fight back a soft frown. "However, I think that perhaps it's merely a sign of the times, as the saying goes. We are all endangered presently. The world itself is. The Outside threatens all our survival." "Whatever the case," the Supreme picks up, voice a little unsteady but steeped in care, "you are a potential Supreme. If anything happens to me, you could be the next leader. Of all witches." Micki swallows her mouthful of tea and shakes her head again. "It's nice of you to say, but I'm sure I can't lead all witches when I'm not even a witch myself yet! I have potential, but surely I'd have to apply that to years of study to do it properly." "It's not nicety that motivates this, my dear." Nessa finally speaks up, smiling her warm, soothing smile, with her comforting tone of voice. Every part of what she normally says and does is so wholly calming, which makes this even more unsettling as she can't quite manage it this time. "I'm afraid it's necessity. There must be a Supreme. That power has to have somewhere to go. The Supreme is more than the leader of witches, she -- or he -- is also the one with infinite potential. Virtually unlimited power. You can surely understand that this mustn't go to the wrong party." "Or worst of all, if it's somehow hijacked by Michael and his ilk." Myrtle snorts, taking another sip of her drink and pursing her rouged lips. "No, we must have a plan. Moreover, we must have a line of inheritance. If the worst should happen..." Her words quiet, and there's obvious discomfort in her countenance, even just discussing this. The thought is openly unsavory to her. "If the worst should happen," Delia picks up the topic, "then we need to be ready. Michael's not going to give us a minute. He's going to press his advantage and his seemingly limitless kamikaze robots--" "Androids! Killer androids." Cordy supplies from her seat. "Androids," the Supreme amends, grinning a little despite herself, "and he's going to wipe us out this time. The main thing keeping him from doing that is the power of the Vale, of Rowanwood, and of Ms. Du Valle. If he manages to find a crack in the structure, he's going to chip at it until it collapses." "But what does that have to do with me?" Micki sets her cup and saucer down on the table, holding her hands up. "I'm not your everyday girl, sure, but I'm definitely not ready to wield unlimited power!" Myrtle pauses only a second before speaking in hushed tones. "You may not have to." "We perceived something when you went into the Lodge, Micki," Nessa starts, tentatively at first. The fatigue has started to show in her eyes, even if she has soundly banished it from everywhere else. "It's a very uncommon thing. Not even every Supreme can do it. It's become regarded as a myth, a legend." Myrtle sets her cup on the saucer with a crisp, bell-clear clink. "Tempus Infinituum." "Time travel is a messy business," Nessa explains, occasionally sipping at her tea, easing back a little too needfully against the cushions of her seat. "It typically requires a frankly obscene amount of power to pull off successfully. There are plenty of ways to do it, of course, but they all take their toll." "Tempus Infinituum is something that is very risky," adds Delia, having finished her tea and floating cup and saucer back onto the try with effortless kinetomancy. "Without enough power to fuel it, it could kill anyone who attempted it. At the very least, it will fling the person back to their native time, and it's not going to be gentle." "Are you saying that I can do that?" Micki looks between the witches all around her. "I thought this revolved around getting the mirrors back together. What does time travel have to do with that?" "Not just time travel," Myrtle answers, "but the power to change events that happened in time." "The ritual can reunite the mirrors. There's going to be a lot of power in that ritual. We have at least nine witches -- three times the Power of Three -- and a nascent Higher Being." Cordelia Goode motions to Cordelia Chase, seated at an angle across from her. "We can use that power to fuel Tempus Infinituum. To send you back. To prevent all this." She waves a hand. "If you can prevent any one of the major events that led to this, we can prevent this future from ever happening. We can stop every death. All the suffering. All the destruction." Micki folds her hands, thinking. Breathing deeply. "How am I going to know what we have to change?" "You'll still have your memories of now," Myrtle replies. "Armed with that foreknowledge, your abilities as an investigator should serve you well." Nessa nods once. "There are a number of critical events. One of the most important is when Michael took on his power. He wasn't always like he is now. The boy was used and discarded by the Outside. There's nothing human left in him." "And however atrocious and lacking I may find his personality," Myrtle adds, "he was not always the way he is now. I say there's nothing human in him -- and there isn't, anymore -- but that was not always the case. He has been manipulated into becoming a, what's the word..." Myrtle frowns for a moment in thought, drumming one hand's fingers upon her chin, then holding up a finger as her face brightens. "A meat puppet! For the Outside." Nessa makes a face mirrored in Cordelia Goode. "Yes, ah, exactly," the lady of the house comments. "We don't know what it was that made that possible," Delia explains further, sitting forward in her chair. "It was, in all likelihood, an act of extreme and terrible evil." "A tremendous loss of life, most likely," Myrtle chimes in. "So...like a massacre." Cordelia sets her empty cup down and, with less effort than she expected to have to use, floats her own cup and saucer back to the table. She doesn't quite get it to the tray, but it sets itself down mere inches away. The actress mouths, "Score!" and looks very pleased with herself. "Just so," Myrtle notes, smiling and giving a sort of gesture of approval to Cordelia's telekinetic development. "Such a thing will not go unnoticed. A massacre must be planned, especially of the scope that would be needed to complete that kind of abhorrent ritual. He always does plan things, you know. He doesn't tend to act until or unless he's sure of success." The witch purses her lips again, looking discontent at merely the thought. "This last attempt, his bold frontal assault -- you realize he only did that because he didn't expect such tremendous opposition. We were fortunate." "Very fortunate," Nessa echoes, placing one hand on Myrtle's. "I know it's asking a great deal of you to digest all of this, but we just don't have enough time right now to ease you into it. You demonstrated the ability, the gift of Tempus Infinituum by restoring that bird to life. That's one of the milder applications of it: you choose a moment to...remind something of, in a way, and you take it back to that point in all the ways that you need to. Moving yourself on the timeline is a bit of a next-level application." Micki sighs and sits back. "It's a lot to take in! But of course I'll do it. If we can stop all this, stop monsters from taking over Seattle...stop the Antichrist or whatever he is, I have to. I have to try." Myrtle smiles, finally, and Nessa too, almost at exactly the same time. They're a pair of bright, genuine expressions of joy and some relief, but both witches' eyes show the burden of preparation, the worry of whether or not this will even work. Tempus Infinituum is a legend, after all. No one is around and accessible who has ever successfully attempted it. "Then we'll start preparations for the ritual." Myrtle finishes her own drink and, seeing that Nessa has also emptied her cup, levitates the both of them to the tray again. She rises, offering a hand to Nessa, to help her up. Delia does the same, smoothing out her dress and looking first to Micki, then to the other Cordelia. "I'll help you both to get ready. I know I'm asking a lot, and I'm very sorry. I wouldn't ask it if it weren't absolutely necessary." Her thoughts have been racing. Perhaps, she thinks, she could have her mother back. So many regrets. So many things left unsaid and undone, forced to resolution in one instant of anguish and loss. But more than that, she imagines, the fallen witches will return to them. The fallen witches and...whoever else Michael slaughtered in order to get where and what he wanted. "I know," Micki almost whispers, taking up her tea again. "I'll just...finish my tea and then I'll be ready." Cordelia Goode nods gently, clasping her hands in patient anticipation. Category:Log